


Road to Nowhere

by Star1086



Category: Fringe, Walking Dead
Genre: AU, Crossover, Daryl Dixon and Peter Bishop kick ass together, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:39:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star1086/pseuds/Star1086
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The man’s tall, over six feet with a mess of overgrown brown hair that’s just on this side of curly and a thick line painted between his eyebrows. Daryl’s more concerned with the automatic handgun that’s pointed at him than the guy’s size; sees the stranger’s defensive stance and the heavy backpack that’s slung around his shoulders. He’s a traveler." </p><p>Daryl meets a stranger while hunting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rainer76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/gifts).



> Takes place after Fringe's Northwest Passage's canon and directly before Walking Dead's Tell It to the Frogs. Because Daryl Dixon and Peter Bishop are too bad assed to not be together in some universe. Title ripped from Talking Heads. Also, I don't own anything. If I did, these dudes would rule the apocalypse.

Daryl wakes from blackness with his head burning like a sonofabitch, dirt caked in the creases of his face and the corners of his eyes. He realizes that he’s belly down against the ground, his arms tied behind him and he knows he’s not alone and as sure as hell in trouble. Two men stand over him, blotting out the sun and if the rope tying him wasn’t enough of a warning that things were terribly wrong, it’s the slick snarl flexed into a grin that the pair of assholes share that makes Daryl’s blood run cold. They stand, cocked like they’ve struck gold and Daryl’s struggling like a whipped horse before a single word’s even been exchanged.

“Now, c’mon here boy,” the first one grins, teeth yellow and his belly bulging over his jeans. “Ain’t gonna eat ya. It’s an apocalypse out here, we live folks gotta stick together.” His companion snickers as he whumps the other on the back; two men with a lifetime of inbreeding between them. Daryl’s arms pull as he tries to get off his chest. Being facedown isn’t a place he wants to be.   

“Get near me and I’ll wipe them smiles clean off yer face,” he growls. He only garners more chuckles.

Suddenly there’s a quick blast and Daryl can’t twitch as the first man’s head snaps backward, the plastered smile of the second man barely flinching before his head all but disappears from his shoulders. Their bodies drop a few feet from where Daryl lies and he almost chokes from the shock of waiting for his turn.  

“Stay where you are—don’t move,” says the new voice behind Daryl so he stays dead silent, his arms strained behind his back where his hands are still bound; shoulders burning from the angle. He’s still on guard, tightly coiled as he tries to feel out the direction where the voice is coming from, his crossbow out of reach and the sun beating down on his overheated neck. The bite of gravel grinds into the skin of his knees as he’s bent over in the woods of Georgia’s backcountry.

“Friends of yours?” the voice continues, closing up on Daryl’s left and he has to keep himself from twisting to look for the guy, knowing firsthand what happens when a jumpy animals surprises an itchy trigger finger, and Daryl has no desire to get his head blown off too. The man’s voice is confident but his accent’s all off, not from the area.

“Nah,” Daryl says as calmly as he can muster after watching his two attackers faces getting blown off, “ain’t no friends of mine.” He sees the outline of the shadow creeping across the dirt and blood and Daryl steals a sideways glance, sweat dripping down his back. “Jus’ some assholes trying to steal my bow.”

“Looks like they were interested in more than just the bow.”

Daryl grinds down hard on his teeth, seething and eyes slit.

“Any other weapons?” the voice continues, guarded and clipped and Daryl thinks _cop_ before the strain to his arms hits him and he stutters, his shoulders rolling when he hears the click and he’s forced to freeze. He thinks _hell_ before looking the guy full in the face, because he’s not going to die a coward if he’s about to get his head blasted off too. The man’s tall, over six feet with a mess of overgrown brown hair that’s just on this side of curly and a thick line painted between his eyebrows. Daryl’s more concerned with the automatic handgun that’s pointed at him than the guy’s size; sees the stranger’s defensive stance and the heavy backpack that’s slung around his shoulders. He’s a traveler.

The smell of the carnage is thick in the air, the sick stench of death from the two red-necked pricks that jumped him and his stomach flips when he realizes there are bigger issues at hand than one guy with a gun.

“A jackknife in my pocket and a Bowie on my belt,” he admits. The man’s face is shadowed behind the smattering of week-old stubble, his clear blue eyes dangerous and Daryl’s pretty sure he ain’t ever gonna get back to Merle and the group.  

“What’cha doing out here?” Stranger asks, taking another step to kick his bow out of the path that the blood’s running from the holes in the men’s heads, also taking it further from Daryl. Not that it’ll help presently, seeing he’s still tied up. Daryl takes an angry breath, his arms shaking now.

“Daryl,” he snaps. “Name’s Daryl Dixon.”

“Okay,” the man says, matching Daryl’s edged tone. “What’cha doing out here, _Daryl Dixon?”_

“Was huntin’,” he says, “before these pricks blindsided me.” Daryl shifts his legs a little to take the strain off his back. The man notices, and the gun is newly focused on Daryl’s head.

“Easy,” Daryl hushes. “Easy now. You’re the one with the gun. Ain’t no reason to be twitchy. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” He cocks his head back towards his tied hands and the man relaxes. Slightly.

“I haven’t had the best luck with strangers,” the man says.

Daryl grimaces. Damn his arms hurt.

“You ain’t the one hogtied,” Daryl says as he looks to the headless bodies. “They’re gonna attract some attention here though.” The man’s face tightens but he doesn’t look away. Deliberating.

“Can you get yourself out?” the stranger asks like he’s itching to leave again. Daryl heaves a sigh of relief, nodding once through the sun that’s near blinding as it sets.

“That is a nice bow,” the man says conversationally as he slides his gun into the holster under the coat he’s wearing. “Don’t use it to shoot me in the back.” He sounds like he’s forcing a joke but Daryl doesn’t laugh. He just nods again and counts his lucky stars that he’s not gonna get jacked and have to find another one.

The man takes a step backward and Daryl watches in silence, not trusting that he won’t change his mind if he makes a wrong move. He catches a rustling sound in the wrong direction; a wet choking that Daryl recognizes and the thrumming in his arms explodes as he twists in time to spot the small group of walkers stumbling into the clearing. It’s a small group, not more than four but it’s enough.

“Fuck,” Daryl breathes at the same time as the stranger does, and almost breaks his wrists trying to roll them out of the restraints, trying to grapple for the knife that’s too far out of reach on his belt. He twists the other direction and the man’s already disappeared, and he knows his ass is toast. Saves him from rednecks only to be eaten alive by Walkers. Perfect.

“God damn,” he continues a long string of angry muttering as he fights his way to his knees even as the first of the four find him, and the best Daryl can do is kick himself back from the dead bodies to try to distance himself and hope the vermin ain’t in the mood to chase. The first of them, an old farmer looking one in tattered overalls stumbles to its knees to rip into the stomach of the dead man and Daryl heaves a dry breath until two others sight him. One of them is a hollowed naked woman with bones poking out sickly from inside her chest. The other one’s only got a bloodied shirt left to it. He doesn’t see where the last one’s gone.  

“Come and get me, you goddamned motherless corpse!” he shouts as he raises but he overcorrects as he stumbles, the strain too much on his arms and he’s on his back with his arms pinned under him. The naked Walker ignores the dead meat and stumbles its way over to him, face so rotted that its skin is sliding off its skull in chunks and Daryl kicks at it but his angle’s all wrong, hitting air instead of body and he’s sure as fucked.

There’s crack in the air and the body lands onto him hard, knocking the air out of his chest and clouding his vision. There’s no pain though, and he realizes the Walker’s dead before he kicks it off. The stranger appears over him, eyes flashing brightly as he helps to pull the body off, taking aim and firing at another one that must have heard the first round.

“Didn’t think you were gonna come back,” Daryl says through heavy breaths, trying to sit up as the man attempts to pull loose the restraints at Daryl’s wrists.

“Makes two of us,” the man replies curtly, halfway around the second knot before the farmer notices them and changes direction from its meal.

“Company,” Daryl seethes, “watch yerself.” The man twists to aim the gun but the Walker’s too fast and he doesn’t get it around in time before it grabs the man’s wrist to push him over Daryl, and they all stumble to the ground, the gun wrestled loose and dirt being kicked into his face. Daryl’s able to loosen the knots enough to pull his wrist free as the fourth one stalks toward them to join the struggle, the man’s voice a steady streams of cursing under the writhing Walker’s body and Daryl thinks for a split second that he’s close enough to grab his bow and get the hell out of there while they’re distracted. It’s exactly what Merle would do. Save his own skin.  

It’s short-lived. He ain’t his brother.

He grabs the Bowie knife from his belt to push into the Walker’s throat whose mouth is covered with bits of flesh and blood, stabbing under its jaw to sink into the soft flesh and not stopping until he feels the resistance of skull before he pulls it back.

“Take your fucking time!” he hears from underneath the half-naked body, the man’s arms flailing against chipped teeth as it tries to snap down on the stranger’s arms. Daryl hustles up behind it, trying to get a clear shot.

“Keep ‘em still.” Daryl orders as the man tries to hold onto something other than slicked, bloodied skin.

“Is that a joke?” he snarls, voice high and panicked. “You’re fucking joking?!”

Daryl catches it on a downward swing with the Bowie and there’s a cracking noise as the Walker gags before it slides off the blade, blood squirting from its skull and Daryl helps to push the body off the stranger who’s dropped back against the earth with his chest heaving.

“Well,” the man gasps, not finishing his thoughts.

Daryl wipes the knife off on his pants, the blood unnaturally cool against his skin. “Others’ll have heard the shots. There’ll be more.” It’s not a few seconds after Daryl helps to haul the stranger to his feet that more of the dead shuffle into the brush line. The man’s face is bleached white as he looks at the oncoming figures like he’s caught in the headlights.

“You shoot me and you’ll regret it,” Daryl warns as he grabs his bow while the ruffled stranger grabs his gear and they take off before they end up like the dicks that are nothing but bone and guts left to them.

“Ammos expensive,” the stranger quips in way of an answer, hesitating for a few moments before following after Daryl and away from the Walkers.

Daryl doesn’t lead them back toward camp, satisfied that the stranger won’t shoot him outright but not willing to compromise anything else. He veers them off course, runs blindly for several unsteady miles as they try to stay ahead of any noise that could signal more danger. Daryl’s near blind with exhaustion, his skin crawling violently when they finally stop to catch their breath.

“Hang on for a second, I’m gonna puke,” the man staggers and thank God because Daryl doesn’t think he can run anymore. The sun is dwindling behind him, taking the warmth with it and he plants both hands on his knees to try to take a cool breath even though his lungs are on fire.

“You’re pretty spry for an old guy,” the stranger says before he coughs and spits, fingers crossed behind his head, cheeks bright pink.

“Who you callin’ old there, boy?” Daryl says trying to pull himself upright. His arms burn even though the temperature’s dropping. “Run circles around your punk ass,” he mutters.

The stranger grins, even though he really does look like he’s gonna be sick. “Haven’t had to run like that since Iraq.”

Daryl’s ears prick up.

“Where you from there, boy?” he asks, guarding himself again and touching his bow.  

“Forget it,” the stranger says, still huffing and waving Daryl off. He takes a look at Daryl’s stone face and breathes. “And it’s Peter. Peter Bishop.”

“Where’s home then, _Peter Bishop_.” Daryl says the ”B” like it’s heavy on his tongue, trying to mimic Peter’s straight-laced voice.

Peter squints into the distance. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Suffice it to say, I’m pretty far from home.”

Daryl rolls his eyes, clicking his tongue. “Fine, whatever,” he mutters, adjusting his bow against his shoulder.

There’s a cracking of broken twigs and Daryl’s on high alert, hearing it before Peter does and he’s got his bow out and sweeping the distance.

“It’s coming from the east,” Peter says in hushed tones, his own gun trained in the other direction. Daryl ignores him, widening his stance and trying to get a better listen. There’s another string of commotion in the distance, the sun too low for Daryl to catch a glimpse of it though. 

“You crazy? It’s this way,” Peter grunts again when Daryl takes a step forward, trying to keep his steps dead silent. He sees the flash behind a tree and his heart jumps, squeezing the trigger just as Peter snarks at him.

“There’s nothing there.”

“Damn it,” growls Daryl when the arrow flies off course as he squeezes off the shot too wide. It slams into the tree instead of the deer he’d been tracking hours before.

“You just cost me dinner,” he mutters, giving Peter a nasty glare as he stomps over to the tree that’s entombed his arrow, the deer already scattering into the darkness. “Been tracking that bitch since before those guys came along.” He pulls hard on the arrow, trying to dig it out from the middle of the trunk.

“ _That_ deer? That same deer?” Peter says, his face incredulous as he lowers his gun.

“Ain’t many left,” Daryl bitches and the arrow is finally free with a last hard tug. He shakes the arrow in front of Peter’s face. “That little bastard gonna be miles out before I find it again.”

“Sorry,” Peter mutters as he funnels the sun from out of his eyes, trying to see where it went. Daryl’s got the arrow back into his pack before the smell hits him a split second before the rot does. He was so focused on the deer that he didn’t check the east, and the Walker staggers from behind the tree that Daryl pulled the arrow from faster than he can reload his bow.

There’s another pop and Daryl’s sprayed with brain and blood down his front. He twists his head to Peter who’s grinning over the barrel of the smoking gun. Peter runs past him and this time Daryl follows, wiping the blood off his face as he goes.        

Night settles before Daryl gets halfway back to camp, the stranger at his heels before they’re forced to stop when Daryl loses the trail. He doesn’t mention the rest of the camp, and the man doesn’t ask but they stick close, Daryl with the bow and the stranger with the gun, confident enough at least that he won’t get shot in the back.

They make camp when the blackness becomes overwhelming, finding a deserted area where they make a small fire with some matches Peter provides. Daryl cooks a squirrel he shot through the eye, the man watching beyond the flames in silent disgust as Daryl sucks the meat off the bones, his opened can of beans in his lap untouched.

“Ain’t you never had no roadkill?” Daryl asks as he finishes off the gristle. The man’s mouth pulls into a deep frown.

“Never had the pleasure.”

“Missing out,” Daryl mutters as he chucks the bones into the blackened tree line.  The only flutters of sound that trickle through the air are the occasional pops of the fire. The silence isn’t comfortable, and Daryl’s bow never leaves his hip. Neither does the man’s gun.  

“So,” Daryl says as he polishes off the meat. “You ain’t huntin’.  And you ain’t from Georgia. You’re with the fuzz.” The man’s eyebrows shoot nearly off his forehead.

“That so?” the man says, amused.

Daryl’s face is smug, cleaning the Bowie with his handkerchief. Peter lays the beans next to the fire and warms his hands.  

“You don’t exactly sound like you’re from ‘round these parts. Besides, who pops two Georgian back-country pricks then comes back when there’s shufflin’ corpses around?”

Peter smiles.

“Can’t I just say I’m an avid believer that no man should be subjected to their own personal Deliverance by the likes of those assholes?”

Daryl juts his chin out, jaw grinding again. But he waits for him to continue. Peter just sighs.

“Can’t you just say thank you?”

Daryl doesn’t.

Peter’s face warms just beyond the whispers of flames’ light. He’s hunched over the fire, his fingers close enough to blister. Daryl settles back against an old tree trunk, trying to get comfortable.

“So. Iraq. You paddle over here or something?” Daryl says smoothly and Peter rolls his face in disgust.  

“Not even remotely. I’ve been here for a while, but let’s just say I’m trying to get back to Boston.”  

“You’re a hell of a ways away.”

“I was in Washington state, before things got bad. Then when things got real bad…” he cuts off. “Made it this far. All without having to resort to squirrel. What’s a little bit farther?” Peter’s eyes flash something that Daryl recognizes.

“Woman?”

Peter snorts, scrubbing his face and looking uncomfortable for the first time.

“No, not just a woman. For my whole family. Make sure they’re alright.”

“How do you even know they’re still alive?”

Peter’s silent for a long moment, his eyes darkened and face drawn. He shrugs, face flashing the undercurrent of anger that barely ripples below the surface. “They might not be. I’ve considered that too.” He says.

“Then what’s the point? You get there and they ain’t there? Already dead? Undead.” Daryl asks, exhaustion wearing on him.

“You got any family?” Peter asks, back to warming his hands as the fire dies.

Daryl’s brow furrows, he doesn’t like talking about Merle. Merle wouldn’t have saved his ass before.

“Brother,” Daryl says, tucking his hands into his armpits. “Ain’t worth shit though, the son of a bitch.”

Peter laughs, the whites of his teeth glowing against the fire. “Well, when you find people worth trekking through the corpse-riddled country, you’ll do anything to keep them.”

“Why were you in Washington then? If you got yerself family all the way in Boston?” Daryl says and it all but wipes the smile from the stranger’s face. Daryl’s gut twists, the prickles of uneasiness washing over him.

“I was angry.” Peter says simply and Daryl thinks it’s all he’ll say on the subject, his face haunted. “I was lied to…by the people I care about. So I packed up and I ran. Far and as fast as I could and Washington was just as good a place as any. I left them…and this happens. Whatever hell on earth this is, whatever fucked up science experiment gone horribly wrong that made the dead reanimate into this nightmare, and I left them.”

Peter’s face looks haggard, and Daryl tries to not stare. He wonders how long the man’s been holding onto his shit.

“I said things to my father…horrible things. And I didn’t say enough to a woman that I should have. That’s why I have to go back.” He finally gets out.

Daryl watches Peter’s face, the slump of his shoulders hanging in defeat.

“So _it is_ a woman.”   

The dark complexion of Peter’s face is brightened for a moment before the last flames fizzle out and they’re left in darkness. Daryl doesn’t sleep well that night, the faces of the corpses still fresh in his mind. He figures the other man doesn’t sleep either, the way he rustles and rolls against the hard land. He wonders what it’d be like to have a brother who wasn’t Merle.   

The day breaks too early, and after too little rest. Daryl’s still sore in the shoulders and his back screams in protest when he rolls himself fully awake. He jerks upward when he takes in his surroundings, flinging into full consciousness. He automatically reaches for his bow, thankfully still at his side. He sweeps his perimeter, looking for signs of trouble. The place is silent. The man’s gone. Nothing, just a small can of unopened beans with a few matches on top. Daryl picks up the can, turning it over in his hand.

“Sonofabitch,” he breathes, stuffing it into his pocket along with the matches. “Hope you find yer girl, Bishop.” He mutters. There’s a crunching in the distance and Daryl’s got his bow halfway loaded with a new arrow. It’s not a corpse though. It’s a deer.  His deer. Strong and lean as it trots by. Daryl figures he can’t be more than a few miles from camp, so he stalks down, bow in hand and hunts.      


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merle's out there somewhere; Daryl's just got to look. Who he finds isn't exactly who he was looking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wrote two more chapters of this fic and had fully intended to post it as a completed story. But after finishing chapter two a while ago, chapter three is still half complete and waiting to die on my hard drive. I was finally convinced to just post the damn thing already so here it is. No promises that a chapter three will ever fully materialize though. Written for Rainer76 for funsies and because she also has an affinity for zombies. Sorry there isn't more dude on dude. Thank you to CW for being amazeballs, as usual.

It’s been days since Merle hacked his own hand off to escape from the rooftop the others left him chained to like a dog. Since then, there’s no solid reason why Daryl pulls himself out at night to hunt for him, but it’s always been Merle and him and it didn’t feel right leaving him for dead. He’s not sure which direction Merle’ll go, unsure how he’s supposed to find him since the attack that took their camp apart, but each night Daryl’s search takes him further into the night without any sign that his brother’s somewhere out there. Somewhere alive. He drags Merle’s pack with him, and some of the loose medical supplies that Dale keeps locked in his RV, just in case.

Daryl’s no moron; he knows the chances of finding his brother alive are pissed away at each day’s end; the cauterization will only last so long without treatment and medication and the fool doesn’t even have himself a weapon. Each night, Daryl ventures out he’s split between the looming fear of finding Merle’s half-eaten corpse and the much stronger fear of finding his brother alive and having to look him in the eye. Merle’s a rat bastard, but the only kin Daryl’s got. Damn what the camp thought of him.  As far as he’s concerned they got what they had coming.

And Daryl leaving isn’t their concern either. They’re lucky he’s got Merle to look for or he’d have left those motherfuckers behind in the dust of his Harley. The Asian kid caught him looking for Merle the first night, black hair plastered against his forehead coming back from taking a piss, but it only took one threatening look from Daryl to know that the kid would keep his mouth shut. He’d been close to giving up when they first found Merle’s hacked off hand, wanting to shank the Sheriff who put him there. But his outburst didn’t last long; Daryl understands but it doesn’t mean it sits well with him. Also doesn’t mean he wasn’t a little relieved.

 Searching at night is frustrating and slow. He’s a good trek out from camp, before he finally finds something out of the ordinary: blood. Fresh blood. It’s not much but it’s there, little splats of blackness that he can still see in the looming darkness. It’s the first time Daryl’s felt something akin to hope in days, so he follows it silently, flashlight blazing and Bowie ready.

It’s a rickety old horse stable that the blood leads him to, the threatening darkness that makes each step more difficult to distinguish and he trips more than once in his haste. The blood loss isn’t massive, but it’s enough to follow; each droplet of crimson against the surrounding brush-life tells a story of survival. His brother’s survival. His stomach burns when the path angles him to the outline of the stable, big enough to fit a few horses or a full grown man. He trains the bow and kills the flashlight when he hears the low mumblings of heavy wet panting and scratching. He ducks behind some trees to gather his bearings.

“Merle’s got himself a little party,” Daryl hushes, rolling back on his haunches behind his cover to count the biters out. There aren’t many, just the three of them, bumping blindly against each other like rabid dogs that smell meat, trying to get through the barn walls with their fingers and nails. Merle’s in there.    

God damn, Merle’s in there.

It only takes three quick zips of his arrows slicing though silence and Daryl’s back on the hunt again.

“Merle!” Daryl’s voice is damn near hoarse when he shouts into the darkness. It takes a few tries to get through the door but one solid kick to the front and it swings inwards, letting him inside. It stinks like death and old horse shit but it’s big enough for someone to stay out of sight of they needed. And _there is_ someonehere; every instinct Daryl’s got is ringing in high sirens for him to look out. There are streams of moonlight streaking through the slats that casts everything in the space like silvery blue monsters and enemies ready to kill.

Trying to track the blood is impossible now, so he presses inward, bow cocked and thoughts wild with possibilities of what he’ll find. He’d of loved to have a horse to bring back to camp with him. There’s rustling that stands out over the pounding of Daryl’s hammering heart, the muffled sound of labored breathing somewhere but it’s too dark to make out from where. He readies his bow and searches the blackness.

“Merle you asshole, where are ya?” Daryl says in frustration after a few moments of strained, itchy anticipation.  

“The inn is full for the night my friend,” says the voice from the darkness. “It’s best to look elsewhere.” It’s not the familiar drawl of his older brother and it shocks a jolt through Daryl, but the voice _is_ familiar. Daryl freezes, arms flexed under the weight of his bow trying to place the nagging feeling he’s heard that accent before.

The exact moment the voice clicks he sees the crumpled lump that’s in the far corner stall, partially hidden by stacked hay bales that are threatening to fall. The dangerous blue eyes are bright even in the darkness, the rumpled dark hair that’s plastered to the sweaty forehead: Daryl knows who this is.

“Bishop?”

 Daryl can barely say the words. He keeps his bow trained; waiting for confirmation that he’s not just off his rocker or given himself a stroke.

“Daryl Dixon,” the voice sounds drunk, the letters stretched too long in his name, but it’s friendly and Daryl relaxes enough to drop his bow. He takes guarded steps toward the outline of the man’s body, his face cast in the same eerie silver light that throws shadows in all the wrong directions.

Peter’s breath is shallow like he’s been running and Daryl knows by the way Bishop’s body is slumped against a hay bale that things had been shitty for the guy since they last met. Daryl has alarming thoughts in rapid succession: the small pack of geeks outside, Bishop’s crumbled form and the wet breaths and it’s not long before he’s got the bow raised again. _Shit._

“Thought you’d be long gone by now, Bishop.” Daryl says over the sight on his weapon. He catches the whites of Peter’s teeth he imagines as an attempt at a smile or a snarl. 

“I got a little off track,” Peter says. Daryl can’t tell where his hands are. He catches the small firearm that’s cradled in Peter’s lap and tenses. He doesn’t miss how the light cuts through the darkness to show the blood there too. For some nagging reason, Daryl’s angry to see Bishop again. It sets his teeth on edge.

“You had some friends waiting fer ya outside,” Daryl evens his voice, his stance cold. Peter turns his face in the direction of the barn doors; neck rolling on his shoulders like it might roll right off.

“ _Oh them_? Don’t worry about them. We’ve got ourselves an agreement.”

Daryl waits.

“I won’t open the doors and they won’t eat my brains through my skull,” Peter clarifies like Daryl’s the idiot. “So far they’re holding up their end of the agreement nicely.”

“You’re outta your damned mind,” Daryl comments.

“The fact that you’re inside and they’re not, I’m taking it that the terms of the agreement have now become moot.” Peter’s voice is lightened with clarity and it makes Daryl worry slightly less that the fever’s already turned his brain to mush.

“You bit?” Daryl asks, returning to the blackened mess of the man’s left thigh, a belt wrapped tight over the denim.

“You gonna shoot me?” Peter asks, dry as the Sahara.

“Yes.” Daryl’s retort is all muscle reflex.

There’s a second of silence but Daryl doesn’t fire. _Damn it Bishop_.

“Save yourself the arrow. It’s not a bite.”

Daryl doesn’t budge, finger still tight over the trigger

“Would you tell me if you was?” Daryl asks. Peter shrugs.

“Put an arrow through me if you think I’m lying.” Peter reasons. Daryl considers it, but drops his bow to his hip. For a second he thinks he sees Peter relax. He slides over to crouch next to the wounded man, trying to squint through the darkness at the extent of the wound.  

“Stabbed,” Peter explains without a prompt, shifting to make room for Daryl to crouch down. There’s delirium edging through Peter’s words. “Got snuck up on when I was reading a map. Another friend of yours like the ones who got you, and I got a knife in the leg for the effort. Guy got my pack and tossed me down a ravine. Woke up a couple hours ago, got myself here.” Daryl can see the outline of the wound. A good thumb’s length down the meaty part of Peter’s thigh.

“Took your pack but not your gun?”

Peter grins. “Tucked into my belt. Lucky I didn’t shoot myself too. Woulda shot him if I had the chance. Still would. Damned redneck asshole.” Peter waves a hand at Daryl after the last comment.

“No offense.” He mutters. Daryl rolls his eyes.

“Someone got the jump on ya, huh?” Daryl mutters. “Took you for some sorta Boy Scout or something. Always prepared for this shit.” Daryl reaches out to peel back a torn piece of denim but Peter’s hand snaps down on his wrist.

“Don’t,” Peter manages. “Jus’ leave it. Give me a second.” His hands are clammy but strong.   

Daryl doesn’t like to be touched, almost reaches for his Bowie on reflex but he pulls it inward, the arm that Peter’s got strained in agitation. He gives Peter a nasty look but opens his hand and Peter’s grip slips, sliding down into his lap. “The Boy Scouts didn’t cover apocalypses,” Peter grunts, rubbing circles over his thigh around the wound like it itches. More blood oozes through the denim.

“I wasn’t no Boy Scout,” Daryl says as he pulls back to reach for his knapsack, “but I did grow up in these backlands--” Peter moves, gun pointed at Daryl’s head. Daryl stops, the pack’s flap back.

“Get that thing outta my face.” Daryl says even as a keel. Bishop sighs and relaxes back against the stack of hay.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbles. “Haven’t had the best day.”

“Yeah I hear that.” Daryl agrees. He thinks back to the night of the attack and pushes it away.  

“Matter of fact, tonight might be your lucky day,” Daryl says as he pulls out the flashlight and a pack of gauze. Peter’s eyes flash like lightening. He hones Daryl’s face in his sights and it’s not long before Daryl’s feeling pinpricks of unease and he starts fidgeting, picking at the corner of the tape with his thumb.

“Who were you really looking for tonight?” Peter asks; leaning back and letting Daryl help pull back the torn denim. He makes a strangled retching in his throat when the bloodied denim sticks to the skin, pulling up the scab. It’s hard to see under the flashlight, the blood covering most everything.

“You’re one lucky sonofabitch that I didn’t find them.” Daryl comments. “That bastard got you good,” Daryl notes through a grimace. “Dude going for the artery or somethin’?”

“Hell if I know. Old guy snuck up behind me. Crazy asshole…” Peter’s back to muttering. He takes a deep breath in and blows it out through his nostrils. “You might end up using that bow yet,” Peter says, lips waxy white and cracked.  

“Ain’t even a scratch you pussy.” Daryl grumbles. “Need to get them pants off though.”

 Peter’s face turns hard, every muscle stiffening and Daryl’s backtracking.

“Ain’t like that Bishop,” Daryl says, flustered. “Take off yer damn pants or bleed to death. A Biter’s gonna smell ya sooner or later and I ain’t sticking around for the company.” He makes to put away the gauze and Peter extends a hand.

“Okay, fine. _Fine_.” He says to make Daryl stop.  

There’s the clanking sound of a loosening the belt over his thigh and Daryl twists his head in the opposite direction, making sure they’re alone because if Merle saw this shit… fuck. He’d rather be dead. He stares at the light through the slats of the barn instead, watching the moonlight catch all the dust in the air. He’s only got a few hours to get back to camp before the others notice.

“Will you keep talking?” Peter says through grunts of wrestling with his pants, “Or this is gonna be just a hair awkward for me. I don’t take my pants off just for anyone. Got yourself a girl?” For the first time since Daryl’s heard him, Bishop sounds flustered.

Daryl’s mind flashes to the people in his group, the pathetic scraps of human life that’s left in this hell hole. The ones that aren’t dead are huddled together in splintered groups, the women with their families or husbands or whatever. He sighs.

“Oh yeah,” Daryl grumbles, combing his fingers through the matted hair down on his neck. “The women jus’ love themselves an ol’ redneck like me.”

The wrestling finally stops and Daryl turns. Bishop looks paler now, a fine sheen on his forehead but the pants are twisted down around his knees, the white of his leg covered in blood.

“She not a fan of squirrel?” Peter asks, only slightly shaky. The babbling seems to keep him distracted more than anything. Daryl flickers the flashlight over Peter’s thigh, the blood soaking the hem of the boxers he’s wearing.

“Every woman loves roadkill.” Daryl continues, trying to keep the light as low as he can to see the injury.

The sides of the wound are puckered slightly, the bleeding fresher now but slowing. “It ain’t bad,” Daryl says, “hold this,” and hands the flashlight to Peter so he can dig out the stolen bottle of peroxide. Peter sees it and his face goes a little green.

“That’s for who you came out looking for?” Peter grunts, holding the flashlight level to his face as he shines it down for Daryl to see just like a cop. Daryl smirks. Peter braces.

“Was looking for my brother,” Daryl admits, tipping the bottle into the wound. The peroxide hisses and pops and the flashlight flickers as Peter growls.

“MotherfuckingGODDAMNshit that hurts.” Peter heaves without taking a breath. His face is a livid red, his jaw grinding. There’s a thud when Peter’s skull drops against the wood, the flashlight cradled against his chest as he catches his breath.

“Got a mouth on you, Bishop.” Daryl says, trading the flashlight and giving Peter the gauze. Peter unravels a piece and tears it off with his teeth. He smashes it down over the cut and winds the rest around the circumference of his thigh a few times.  

“You’re the one pouring the peroxide.” Peter grumbles, pulling his jeans back up over his hips. It takes a few tries, but Daryl lets him finish without comment, putting together his knapsack and checking his bow for dirt.

“So,” Peter finally asks. “What happened to your brother?” 

Daryl doesn’t know how to answer that. He’s not sure. And he’s not one for sharing.

“Did he get bit?” Peter prompts, back to rubbing circles on his leg.

“No,” Daryl’s quickly drawls. “But he’s out there. Somewhere. And he’s a helluva lot worse off than you and your flea bite.”

There’s a waning howl in the distance that cuts through the night and both Peter and Daryl jump.

“Fuck.” Peter grumbles, “I’m sorry man.”

There’s nothing to say. Nothing that Daryl can say. He feels twitchy, ready to get back out again.

“At the risk of sounding like an asshole, I’m happy that your brother is out there somewhere, because I’d dead if you hadn’t been looking for him.” Peter shifts his legs, pulling them close to his chest so he can drape his arms over his knees.

“Wasn’t nothing but a scratch, Bishop—" Daryl argues, “Woulda been fine.” He argues irritably but Peter growls.

“Not with those friends waiting for me out there.”    

Daryl’s confused. “Why? How many rounds you got left?”

“One.”

Daryl rolls back, trying to get more comfortable in dirt and hay. “What? Were you gonna ask them to stand back to back?” he asks, amused.

Peter doesn’t answer right away and Daryl gets a sinking feeling that he tries to scratch away. Peter’s eyes are bright like he first remembered over the fire when they’d first met.

“No. That wasn’t exactly the plan.” Peter finally says Daryl knows there’s a lot more he’s not going to say. Daryl swallows and tries to not think too much about what that means. But it feels like his skin is vibrating.

“Whatever,” he whispers, reaching for a strand of hay to crush between his fingers. The crunching is the only sound that passes between them and Daryl tries to not think about whether or not there was a chance that he was going to find Bishop eating his own gun.

“Now I get to save the bullet for the prick who jumped me, if I ever see him again,” Peter sounds angry, his face darkening and he looks dangerous. Daryl can’t help but want Bishop to find the guy.

“The guy was messed up too, covered in blood. Looked like he was gnawed on good by something—raving like some mad animal and missing a hand.”

Daryl’s heart comes to a screeching halt.

“He was missing his hand?” Daryl chokes, and he feels itchy again, his veins thrumming. Peter nods, staring blankly at nothing in particular, his lip curling.

“Was he okay?”

Peter’s face flashes, reading Daryl’s face and Daryl looks away.

“Was _he_ okay?” Peter rasps. “Old man stabbed me, wrestled my pack away from me and tossed me down a valley to bleed out. All with one goddamned hand I might add. I’m sure he’s doing just dandy.” There’s venom in Peter’s words.

Daryl bites his tongue, chewing his nails down to the quick. Merle’s alive. He knew it. He _knew it_. And the asshole almost killed the guy who’d saved Daryl’s life. He’s got to be close. Or a million miles away by now. The camp’s gone; they’re traveling further every day. Merle could have found them if he wanted.

“Life’s fucked up,” Daryl mumbles out loud. He leans back and tries to wrap his brain around what Peter’s saying. He rubs his temples with his sticky palm to try to keep his legs from shaking and cracking more strings of hay. They sit like that for a while, each glowering in their corners.

“Olivia,” Peter says and it’s enough to stop the cracking of snapping hay. Peter’s head tilts as he talks. “That’s her name. The girl’s name. She’s not a girl though, she’s…” he cuts out, wiping his bloodied hand against his already mangled jeans. “She’s who I’m going back for.”

“Okay,” Daryl says, not really sure what he’s suppose to say. He was never good at these sort of things. “Well, you tell her that she owes me one. Name a kid after me or something for saving yer sorry ass.” He also wants to tell him he’s sorry. He keeps that part to himself.

Peter chuckles, his voice hoarse from wear.

“I thought this might put us back to even.” Peter argues. His face is still waxy white but he doesn’t look like he might keel over sideways now.

“There were only two of them dicks after me,” Daryl counts off on his fingers. “Plus them dead that tried to get at you afterward—“

“—When I was saving your skin, I might add.” Peter interjects. Daryl huffs.

“But pound fer pound my totals nearin’ the double digits and all you got was some Georgian hillbillies.”

Daryl can see Peter grinding down on that, trying to find a win.

“Live people count extra. I win.” He finishes, satisfied.

Daryl clucks his tongue. “Even then,” he finally concedes, and Peter smiles. Daryl checks out the interior of the barn his mind whirling. How easily he could have just been like Merle. He doesn’t want to be like his brother. Wants to be better.  

“I gotta get back,” Daryl says. The moonlight’s almost gone and if he doesn’t leave now he’s never going to find his way back into camp before they leave his ass. “The place is good for tonight, I’ll check to make sure there ain’t more of them outside. Can you walk?”

Peter nods.      

“You sure he’s still out here? Your brother?” Peter asks.

Daryl shrugs pursing his lips and trying to contain what he doesn’t want to say so he hoists his bow over his shoulder. “You sure she’s still out there?”

“Yes,” Peter says.

“Okay then,” Daryl agrees.

Peter scrubs the side of his jaw, gathering his legs to pull himself up to stand, testing his leg a little but keeping himself from falling. Daryl looks at the man, his wiry beard and his unkempt hair. He wants to tell him sorry for his brother’s actions. He holds out his bag instead.

“There’s some supplies in here. Some canned stuff. It was my brother’s.”

Peter doesn’t take it, the black line in his forehead crunched together.

“Won’t your brother need it? When you find him?”

“I ain’t gonna find him. You won’t make it two miles without it.” Daryl says. He feels dumb holding the bag out, Peter not moving to take it.

“Jus’ take the damn thing.” Daryl gripes. Peter finally reaches out and takes it, slinging it around his shoulder. He nods thanks and Daryl’s glad he doesn’t say it out loud.

“Listen,” Peter starts, then stops like he’s changed his mind. “I would ask if you’d want to get the hell out of this tick-infested heat, but if you’re anything like me, you’re not leaving if there’s a chance that he’s still alive.” That’s as far as he gets, leaning his weight against a sturdy wall in the stable. Daryl almost considers it.

Peter flashes him a fast flicker of a smile, but it’s gone and they’re just two grown men standing in a dark barn together.

“We’re headin’ to the CDC,” Daryl says. “When you get yer girl.” Peter nods.

“Hope you find your brother,” Peter says as Daryl starts to back out of the barn. The moon is nearly gone, the cool air stinging Daryl’s lungs. He looks out over the horizon. Peter hobbles out behind him.

“The coast’s clear. Not a Walker in sight. There’s a good size Bowie in the bag too.” Daryl says. Merle’s gonna be pissed.

“Thanks. I’ll find more ammo. I always do.” Daryl nods and Peter reaches his hand out for Daryl to shake. He does. 

“Don’t shoot me in the back.” Daryl says seriously with a solid grip on Peter’s hand.

“Dixon,” Peter says.

“Bishop,” Daryl returns.

Daryl slips into the night and pulls the door closed behind him so Peter can rest inside a little longer. The night’s still, closer to black than not but Daryl can’t chance the flashlight. He walks around to the dead corpses he took out earlier, dragging them one by one to the front of the barn’s opening, hoping the stink will ward off other corpses. Just in case.

He doesn’t look back at the barn as he starts to make his way to camp, tries not to anyway. He keeps a wary eye out for danger, out for Merle or anything in the night. He thinks that for the others in the group, life might be better without his brother around. He’d always thought he’d end up just like Merle. A useless, good for nothing bastard.

Almost against his will, he looks back to the barn still standing against the darkness.

Maybe he doesn’t have to turn out like Merle after all. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post The Suicide King. Daryl's realizes he's in over his head and he sees a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Finally figured out how I wanted to end this fic. Thanks to Bully for not letting me kill this fic or the people in it. This last installment's a big one, so it's split between two chapters. Second one will post as soon as I'm done being lazy.

Leaving the group and the safety of the prison to head out solo with his brother was a mistake. Daryl’s not exactly known for making sound decisions, but he doesn’t fully appreciate the implications until fifteen minutes after he gave Rick the finger and loaded his gear up to head into the unfamiliar with Merle. And fifteen minutes was about fourteen too many for Daryl to realize he made a shit choice.

Watching Merle shift through the meager possessions of the woman and her crying infant while the two men with dead eyes stood by helpless struck a chord in him that had hidden deep beneath decades of resentment. In exactly fourteen minutes Merle had turned Daryl back into the kid with the cowlick who lied to his teacher about his bruises because he was too shit terrified and ashamed to ask for help. The little baby wagging its fists uttered a cry that sounded just like Lil’ Asskicker and Daryl growled. He was goddamned if he was going let Merle steal from her. He wasn’t scared of his brother anymore. He raised his arrow and told the only living kin he had left to step back.

They’re miles out after leaving the family intact and Merle’s still steaming, Daryl can tell, calling them ugly names under his breath.  But Daryl knows Merle’s really talking about _him._  

“C’mon Darylena,” Merle says and the anger flashes hot in Daryl’s stomach. “I need to take a shit and I ain’t got time to watch your sissy ass prance around.”

Daryl nearly cracks his bow between two clenched fists. _Doesn’t that asshole know what he gave up for him? He had a place. He had people who respected him._ And he sure as hell didn’t have the nickname Darylena.

“Best shut the hell up,” Daryl grumbles outside of earshot as they cross more of the crooked landscape that’s picked to the bone, Daryl near cross-eyed in agitation as they hunt nothing. He keeps the bow leveled; his arms taut trying desperately to find himself a squirrel so he can have a neck to wring that isn’t his brother’s. But there’s not a thing alive ~~that~~ no matter how far they look, and Daryl knows it. No squirrel, no deer. No goddamn gophers scurrying about. Nothing. He kicks at loose rocks and keeps his head down and focuses on trying to find a trail that’s anything more than rocks and dirt. 

“What’s that baby brotha?” Merle stomps up from behind him and it’s nearly enough to make Daryl’s back curl inward and his stomach hurt. Merle doesn’t notice or doesn’t care as he smacks a hand on Daryl’s back as he passes, taking long, sprawling steps. “You ain’t still got yer panties in a wad over them Spics we saved? Your good ol’ buddy Rick there’s made you soft like a lil’ puppy dog. Betcha you even brought him his slippers.” Merle flashes a toothy smile and Daryl has to resist the urge to knock them out.

Merle’s a right asshole but he owes him this. He knew Merle was still alive but he left with the others anyway; secretly relieved to be freed of him. Daryl doesn’t like owing a debt to any man, and Merle’s his blood. The others aren’t. It was that simple.

“Hold here a tick,” Merle said as he waved his stump. “Gotta go take me care of some business.” Daryl suddenly misses the cold tin of the metal pissers at the prison. He went all winter squatting over some frozen hole in the ground and he’s not looking forward to doing it again in the company of Merle.

He busies himself by surveying their blind spots, trying to ignore the direction Merle takes, and he wanders enough to look up to the twisting branches of the dead trees overhead. There hasn’t been a bird that Daryl’s remembered for a while and he misses the distraction. The sun’s beating down with a vengeance and Daryl hasn’t had himself a solid scrub down or meal since before they broke into Woodbury to take back Glenn and Maggie from the sadistic asshole that called himself the Governor. Daryl hasn’t let himself think properly on the events that led to him finding his brother again. It’s not something he wants to think too much on.

Daryl liked the kid well enough, respects Glenn’s endless enthusiasm that used to set his teeth on edge before. Glenn’s blackened and purple face made Daryl near queasy; Glenn was a shade away from unrecognizable. That face reminds Daryl of all the bad times growing up and it’s the reason why he ran away with Merle outright. He knew it was his brother’s hand that did it and Daryl knows the kid’s never gonna be the same. Maggie, either. He hasn’t heard the whole story but he’s not blind. He doesn’t want to stick around when the kid’s eyes go dark.    

“Sonofabitch!”

Daryl hears his brother’s voice, the thundering crackle of some shit going down and he’s off racing through the tree line like someone’s holding a lighter to his ass.

“Merle!” Daryl’s voice is high, trying to focus through the passing landscape without tripping while tracking the noise, taking anything not rooted down along with him as he hustles to meet up with his brother who’s cursing up a storm in the distance.  

“Merle!” He shouts again and comes to a dead stop in a clearing in the brush to pull back his bow, only seeing fumbling outlines as Merle wrestles something down, landing on his back and his whole head’s a bright pink as he tries to swing his metal arm around on the firm grip of the hooded figure that’s holding him down. There’s something familiar about the worn canvas knapsack that’s strapped to the stranger’s back. He’ll shoot through it if he needs to.

“Get your ass of ‘im!” Daryl shouts over the commotion as he raises his bow. Merle’s shouting something he can’t hear at the stranger but everything goes a little cloudy as soon as the stranger’s hood lifts away while he’s throwing punches at Merle’s head, one hand gripped tight into the neck of his brother’s shirt.

“It ain’t,” Daryl mumbles, loosening his trigger finger. But it is. “Well, god damn.” But there’s no time to process because there’s a _click_ beside his temple and he knows someone’s holding a gun to his head.

“Twitch,” says the cool voice belonging to the gun, and Daryl’s surprised it’s a female’s voice. Daryl has to pull himself into the present and twist his eyes away enough from his brother and his attacker to see down the barrel of the small automatic weapon that’s staring back at him. “I dare you.” The woman’s voice is smooth and dry like whisky and Daryl thinks it best to listen. Her voice leaves no doubt in Daryl’s mind that she’s not damned serious.

“Daryl?” comes a voice from the other direction but Daryl’s inclined to keep his attention on the woman with the weapon trained on him, her pale face sharp around the edges. Daryl knows the voice even if he hasn’t paid mind to it in some time. He drops the bow slowly and finds Peter Bishop’s arm half-cocked about to knock into Merle’s face again. The look on Bishop’s face is blown wide, half-covered by the hood of the sweatshirt he’s wearing; the wiry stubble Daryl remembers now a full-blown beard. He’s wearing Merle’s blood on his knuckles like a glove.

“Bishop,” Daryl acknowledges and they’re all now frozen in this weird shit field waiting for someone to do something. Merle, ever the opportunist, uses the silence to haul back his fist in a silver flash and the instant Peter yelps, four bodies explode into action. The woman swings her gun away from Daryl and onto his brother and Daryl only has a split second to drop his bow and tackle her; digging his heels into the dirt and tasting the heat from the discharge as he knocks the shot wide and knocks the gun loose. The woman’s stronger than she looks though, and Daryl feels a sharp elbow to his face and it stings like a motherfucker, but he holds on tight because he wants to come out of this alive. He loses sight of Bishop and his brother for a few blind seconds while he tries to reach for one of the fists that’s currently swinging down on him like a behemoth.  

“Stay down, asshole.” Peter shouts as he swings a kick to Merle’s chest but Daryl can barely make out the words over his own set of problems, trying to grab hold of the fist that clocks him in the eye. She may be strong, but he’s stronger and he finally nabs the swinging fists, twisting the blonde against his chest with her arms crossed and momentarily restraining her from pummeling him. He sees through his peripheral view Peter hustling to grab a gun from the dirt and Daryl’s again faced with another gun trained his head. Bishop’s cheek’s cut nicely open, blood trickling through the maze of curling beard.  

“Let her go, Dixon. Right now.” Peter’s voice is calm but there’s a wild edge to it, eyes flashing dangerously. He doesn’t seem at all bothered that his face is bleeding or with the man who did it anymore. His eyes flicker between Daryl and the blonde.  

“I ain’t the one using her as a punching bag.” Daryl says, blinking through the eye that’s slowly swelling. He holds tight to the girl, strands of hair stuck in his mouth. “Why is it that whenever I see you, you’re pointing a gun at my head?”

“Let. Her. Go.” Peter replies, now close enough that Daryl can see his eyes are nearly black, the irises completely sucked up. There’s a click to the small gun and Daryl’s shoulders twitch. He’s sick of guns. Daryl peers over Peter’s shoulder to see Merle slowly rolling himself up from the ground, wet coughing and spitting out the blood that’s in his mouth. Daryl doesn’t have many options. He gives the girl a good shove in Bishop’s direction, hands high in the air. Peter reaches out and catches her around the waist, gun still trained on Daryl but the tension’s popped. Daryl feels the prickle on his neck, the surreal feeling that this can’t be real.  

“You know this prick?” Peter finally heaves after adequately checking that the girl who’s just wailed on Daryl is safe. He tilts his head in Merle’s direction, eyes still black.

“That prick’s my brother.” Daryl juts his chin and Peter’s mouth falls open, just a millimeter. Daryl takes the chance to lean down and grab his bow, slinging it over his shoulder and trying like hell not to touch the eye that’s still stinging. Bishop twitches like he wants to shoot, but he doesn’t fire. Daryl picks up the fallen handgun too, and everyone holds their breath.

“Take it,” Daryl says and holds it out by the barrel for one of them to take. “Pull the trigger or take the damn thing, I ain’t gonna shoot back either way.” Peter doesn’t move, gun still pointed and back hunched in front of the girl like he’s an angry bear and Daryl’s eyeing the cub. “But from the feel of it, that girl don’t need protecting.”

Peter’s eyes are slits, but he gives Daryl a tight grin. His gun still hangs midair.

“That motherfucker nearly broke my nose!” Merle shouts and the three of them jump. Merle’s face doesn’t look much better than Daryl’s eye feels. “Shoot that cracker asshole!”

“Shut up!” Daryl and Peter shout at the same time. Peter glares while Daryl’s eyes flicker to the blonde girl: she looks young, but her eyes are hard and from the feel of it she’s just all skin and bone under her coat. Probably no more that a buck ten soaking wet but she packs a hell of a punch and Daryl can’t help but be fascinated. Merle looms in the background, stomping the earth like an angry bull. The girl raises an eyebrow when she catches Daryl staring and he feels his face crank up the heat before he lowers the gun when neither of them make a move to take it, and goes about picking up the arrows that are strewn across the ground.

“This yer Olive Oil?” Daryl asks, pointing an arrow in the direction of the blonde girl without making eye contact. He can’t remember if Bishop had mentioned her name but the way that Bishop orients himself around her, she’s somebody important.

“Olivi-a,” the girl says without the edge when Peter doesn’t respond, her face relaxing. She makes a move and Peter’s hand suddenly grasps her by the wrist and the look she gives him is so frightening that Daryl almost reaches for the gun. Peter doesn’t miss it either, drops her hand and lets her push past him pointedly to hold an empty hand out for her gun back. “Olivia Dunham. And I take it you boys have met before.”

Daryl keeps his head down, his gaze averted and says nothing. Peter’s gun’s still pointed until Olivia makes it safely back to his side.  She puts a hand to Peter’s gun and pushes it gently down like she’s trying to refocus his attention. And Peter lets her, but doesn’t unwind an inch. Daryl can’t suss out if this is really the girl Peter talked about over the fire, the girl isn’t like the woman he imagined Bishop with and it’s hard to figure out what their relationship is.

 “That douchebag ever relax?” Daryl asks.

“Not even remotely,” Olivia answers, cleaning off her gun on her shirt and stealing a glance between Daryl and Merle. “But can you blame him?”

Daryl can’t bring himself to answer. “Crazy asshole got back to Boston then?” Daryl directs to Olivia and tries not to sound like he’s shocked. “You found her?” Olivia’s eyes travel between the two of them, trying silently to figure out the back story that obviously hasn’t been shared. The girl’s boney but strong; straight backed and almost masculine. And can throw a punch like a fucking sailor. He guesses he was more expecting...well, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting. He thinks of Carol, then Andrea, Maggie and Lori from his group that’s shattered now. She’s unlike any of those women.  

“What the hell is this, a little tea party? What’chu doing here, brother? That asshole jumped me.” Merle stomps behind Bishop and the girl and they both swing their guns and Merle freezes, eyes rolling. Daryl breathes out and reaches for his bow.

“Merle, shut yer mouth and walk away. This don’t concern you.” Daryl shouts angrily, finger twitching over the crossbow’s trigger, trying to not react when every instinct he has tells him to.  

“Caught him poking his nose after her,” Peter says through a strained voice and flared nostrils, the veins thick in his neck, gun still twitching at Merle’s face.

“Ain’t nothin’ to go gettin’ your panties all riled up about…Just enjoying the show.” Merle cuts between the two with a swing of his hips but Peter shouts over him, going pink in the cheeks.  

“--Then I recognized who he was. The asshole that stole my supplies, stabbed me, and left me for dead for the corpses. I had hole in my leg that I had to walk on for two fucking months.” Peter’s whole arm shakes. “And you’re telling me that this one-armed asshole is your brother? Small fucking world.” Peter’s laugh is bleak.

“What are you doin’ back here? Why would you bring her back here with you?” Daryl asks, ignoring the path Merle’s stomping behind them and trying to get Bishop to focus the gun away from his brother’s head.

“Is that my pack? What’s that cocksucker doing with my pack?” Merle shouts, finger pointed to the lump attached to Peter’s back.

“Shut up!” Daryl shouts again. 

“The CDC.” Olivia answers for Peter. “We came back—“

“—You wasted yerself a trip.” Daryl answers. “It’s gone.”

Peter’s face goes starch white and he looks like the ghost of the man that was ready to eat his gun in a stable.

“It’s not,” Peter says. “It can’t be.”

Daryl nods. “We was there. It’s gone. Blown to nothin’. Yer about a year too late.”

Peter doesn’t respond, eyes fading to fog and his girl scrubs her fingers through the loose strands of her hair. There’s a few silent seconds blurred only by Merle’s angry mumbling in the background. But Peter drops the gun at least, so…success.

“Damn it!” Olivia curses. “How?” She stomps off, fingers crossed behind her head like she’s trying to catch her breath. Peter leans hard on his knees, his jaw twisting and jumping under the curling hair of his beard. Daryl wishes he’d do something with his bleeding face, by now he’s gotta be smelling good to the biters.

“Power generator,” Peter answers. “They ran outta fuel, didn’t they?” Daryl nods, wondering how in the hell Bishop knows shit like this.

“Ain’t there some big government place up in New York? Helluva lot closer to Boston than Georgia.” Daryl’s wild, back to pacing as he tries to ignore Peter’s bloodied face.

“That why we’re here.” Olivia answers but looks to Peter to see if she’s revealing too much. Peter nods so she continues. “Most of New York’s overrun. Last intel we heard, the CDC was making progress.”

“There ain’t no progress to be made anymore,” Daryl cuts. “We talked to one of the scientists there—the last scientist. He said they’re just as fucked. You’re crazy or just stupid to be making a trip like this. After all that hard work I had to do to save his sorry ass.”

Daryl’s half joking but Peter doesn’t find it humorous. “It wasn’t for nothing,” Peter grinds as he digs his fingers into the denim of his jeans. Dude looks a lot smaller than Daryl last remembers. “We’re gathering data; targeting hot zones. There was supposed to be a solution…”  

“Did Emory survive?” Olivia jumps back in, and Daryl cocks his head.

“Emory University, a few miles out from the CDC?” Olivia explains but it doesn’t clear anything up for Daryl. “Did it survive the outbreak?”

Daryl feels his skin start to itch again, like he’s left out of the punch-line of the joke. “Lady, does it look like anything survived?” He says. Scratching doesn’t help the itch, it just flares up his arm and spreads to his chest.  

“The CDC would have backed-up their mainframes through the university’s servers,” Peter carries on like Daryl’s not there. “The samples, the records, it’s reasonable to assume that the data could still be there…”Peter’s upright again, his expression so excited that Daryl almost doesn’t recognize him.  

Daryl’s so engrossed in trying to jump onto Peter’s train of thought that he misses the fact that Merle’s angry muttering has disappeared. There’s only a few sharp snaps of his heavy boots treading over the ground and an angry growl before Bishop’s near lifted straight off the ground when Merle tackles Bishop hard from behind, throwing him into Daryl and knocking the three of them to the ground. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm monopolizing everything on AO3. I'll stop now.

There’s a prickle of horror that rises in Daryl’s chest as they all land together, his absolute anger at indulging all of Merle’s shit growing up then leaving him in the wind to be beat like a dog by their father. Daryl's damned sick of it. 

Bishop lands like a dropped piano, Merle’s bloodied face sneering as he attempts to shake loose the pack from Peter’s back, nevermind that it’s still attached to Peter’s back. Peter holds tight to the gun and Daryl fights to get to his knees while Bishop tosses back an elbow to catch Merle in the jaw.

“Shoulda killed your ass when I had the chance, pretty boy.” Merle grunts from deep inside his chest, trying to wrestle Peter’s gun away one-handed. Peter holds tight, teeth bared and goddamn it, Daryl just doesn’t have time for this shit.   

“Merle!” Daryl shouts from his belly, fisting the dirt as he rights himself just as Merle lands a hard punch to Peter’s side and Peter’s grip on the gun loosens, Merle twisting to get his hand on it to pry it out of Peter’sfingertips. It’s awkward since the gun’s gripped in Peter’s left hand and Merle’s forced to try grab it with his left hand

“Knock it off,” Olivia commands, her gun drawn on the pair of them rolling around in the dirt. She takes a swing of her leg and catches Merle in the chest, and Daryl’s both impressed and a little surprised at how strong the girl must be because when Merle’s knocked backward, he falls hard. When the dirt settles, it’s Olivia standing over the pair of them, pressing an ugly combat boot against Merle’s throat, gun digging into his cheek. Merle stops struggling and Daryl’s up and grabbing for his knife on his belt, everything slipping away.

“I said _knock it off,”_ Olivia repeats, boot digging. “There’s enough terrible shit in this world without us being at each other’s throats too.” Peter rolls off his back and eyes Daryl’s newly exposed knife that Olivia’s ignoring, gripping his gun in the dirt and his cheek freshly bleeding again. 

“Oh, c’mon there sugar tits…ain’t nothing to be concerning yourself about. Jus’ a little rough-housing between boys.” Merle says without charm, making sure to showcase his stained, bloodied teeth. Olivia’s face twitches and she flicks off the safety, pushing the gun harder into his brother’s skin.

“Call me that again. I’d really like that.”

“Olivia,” Peter warns, now on his feet; his hands planted on his knees and never looking away from Daryl’s knife, and Daryl’s not quite sure what his plan is, but it sure as hell doesn’t include watching Merle’s face get splattered a few hours after getting him back.  As soon as Olivia lifts her boot, Merle siphons in a breath of air.     

Olivia backs away slowly, gun still trained and not an ounce of nerves showing. Daryl cautiously tucks the knife away so that Bishop can unwind again. He sees the way the tips of his fingers dig into his knees like he might be after bone.

“Don’t give yerself an aneurysm, Bishop.” Daryl says, showing the knife’s gone. “You didn’t mention that yer girl’s a cop too. Don’t seem quite fair.” Peter stares blankly at Daryl. “We got ourselves a Sheriff’s deputy in our group too. Ya’ll are so bossy.” He explains and Peter’s face relaxes.    

“I was FBI, back when there was an FBI,” Olivia speaks for Peter, tucking her gun back under her jacket, smoothing her hair back down into her perfect helmet. “More specifically, Homeland Security.”

Daryl clucks his tongue. “Great job with that security, considering the world’s crawling with corpses.”

Peter and Olivia share a knowing look and Daryl misses the joke again.

“We’re working on it.” Peter says cryptically and Daryl knows for sure he’s left out.

Daryl stomps past them and helps pull Merle upright, two sets of eyes on his back when he grabs his brother’s hand and gives him a dark glare as he heaves him upright. Merle’s sneering, and Daryl can feel the anger prickling through his brother’s skin.

“Give me a minute,” Daryl asks, voice low. “I’ll take care of it. You ain’t helping.” Merle looks mutinously at Daryl for a moment, refusing to look at the pair behind him. He squeezes Daryl’s hand tight enough to crush bone before wrenching his hand out of Daryl’s grip, trying to straighten his vest between skin and metal.

“I’m gonna go take that shit,” Merle says. “Before I got distracted with Hillary Clinton, here.” Merle makes a point by directing that at Olivia who gives him a stony glare in response. “They’ll shoot you in your back, baby brother. Don’t you forget that. ” He looks hard at Daryl before stomping away, but not before flipping Peter and Olivia the bird.

“So long, fuckers,” he shouts as he disappears into the bushes.

“Charming,” Olivia mumbles in disgust, watching Merle get swallowed up by the outdoors.

“You alright?” Daryl motions to Peter’s face. Peter seems lost, staring after Merle with an expression like he’s trying to think through something. He reaches for the handkerchief in his back pocket and tosses it at Peter’s chest, and it blooms open on impact. “It ain’t new, but it’s clean.” Peter catches it without looking and confusion sets in as he stares down at the red material like Daryl just tossed him a rotten egg.

“Clean yourself up before you attract attention.” Daryl grumbles and Peter finally remembers the cut and presses the folded material to his cheek, wincing.  

“S’okay,” Peter says. “Not like being stabbed in the leg or shot at. Both of which I’m painfully familiar with.” He smiles again, and with Merle gone he looks almost human.

 “Where’s the rest of your group?” Peter voice is muffled by the handkerchief, trying to ignore Olivia’s glare by focusing his attention on Daryl. “Where’s your sheriff’s deputy?”

Daryl nearly opens his mouth, but he stops short of saying anything. He doesn’t have a group anymore.

“We left,” he starts but doesn’t know where to go with it, so he leaves it open.

“They didn’t care for the present company either?” Peter snarls sarcastically.    

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“I didn’t realize it was,” Peter snarls. Daryl takes two steps in Peter’s direction but its Olivia’s hand on his chest that stops him. It roots him, frozen, as he looks at the small, pale hand connected to the arm that’s riddled with strength.

“Olivia,” Peter says and he’s all riled up again.

“Daryl’s not going to hurt me,” Olivia says evenly, even friendly. She casts a look at Daryl and he swallows. He relaxes but he feels the heat in his face again. Daryl stays put, and she drops her hand and turns to Peter.

“I’m going to scout around a bit,” she says and cuts off Peter before he has a chance to interject. “You two obviously have some things to talk through and Daryl here has information we can’t survive without.”

She stops and waits for Peter. Peter just nods, palm still smashed to his cheek. And Olivia turns back to Daryl.

“Whatever you did for Peter before…you got him back home. Whatever happens between the two of you, know that I’m thankful for that.”

Daryl feels like he’s suffocating, the weight of the girl’s face and words too heavy for him to shoulder. He glues his eyes to Bishop’s shoes, mumbling “you’re welcome” and tries to look away so that she’ll stop staring.

Her boots are silent as she leaves, leaving just him and Peter in the wilderness. The trees are dead, and it would be nice to have a cool breeze to take the heat off his shoulders.

“She’s right you know.”

Daryl finally looks up from his bow.

“’Bout what?” Daryl asks. Peter pulls the handkerchief away, the slice on his cheek puffing nicely. He hands it back to Daryl he doesn’t take it.

“Keep it,” Daryl says. “You need it more than me.” Peter stuffs it into his back pocket.

“I would have died before. I probably should have. You gave me that chance. And your brother…” Peter grinds out that part a bit sourly, “…you can’t help who he is any more than I can help who my _father_ was.”

Daryl hears the way Peter says that word, knows there’s a story behind it but can’t bring himself to ask.

“So, he survived too?” He asks.

Peter’s face turns up into a tight grin, the lines around his eyes more distinct.

“Yeah. Can you believe that? Found them together. She kept him alive. They kept going. I owe her everything for not abandoning him like I did. She could have. Could have saved her own skin and I wouldn’t have held it against her. But she stayed.” Peter looks into the heat of the sun, his eyes blurry against the light.

“Tough girl,” Daryl agrees.

“I love her for that.” Peter says matter of factly. The air shifts and Daryl feels pinpricks on his neck.

“Then why bring her out here in this? Why not just hunker down and survive this thing?”

Peter’s chin shifts and his eyes are wistful.

“Can you believe that I wanted to? I’m a smart man and that makes me incredibly selfish. I risked life and limb to get back to her, to my father and I knew that the chances of them being alive was…” his voice breaks off, “it wasn’t good. And there they were. And I thanked my lucky stars that she was so much stronger than I would have been. Why would I risk that?”

Peter’s face shifts back to the heat, and Daryl’s stays silent, ready for him to continue.

“It was her idea.” Daryl says. Peter smirks.

“Yes it was.”

“And you let her?”

Peter’s face screws up on one side.

“Would _you_ tell her no?”

Daryl snorts, feeling the heat of his eye as it burns under the skin. “No, s’pose I wouldn’t.”

A bird calls in the distance and they both jump. Daryl thinks about his group. The people that he might call his own family.

“Did they forgive you? After all that?”

Peter’s face darkens.

“No, not right away. My father nearly went crazy after I left. He worked days and nights trying to figure out this whole mess. But I returned like the prodigal son to him, let him wrap me in his arms and he smelled…just like I remembered. Just like Walter. Olivia…she didn’t come around quite so easily.”

“But she did eventually.” Daryl says.

Peter nods ruefully, the smile still playing at his lips. “Eventually. With a lot of hard work. She’s my family just as much as he is. It was worth it.”

Daryl looks for Merle in the distance, knows he’s out there still fuming and hopes he doesn’t run into Olive Oil.

“I don’t blame you for what your brother did. Or you for protecting him. I’d do the same. Exactly the same. When the world goes to shit, the only ones you can count on are your family. But Daryl?”

“Yeah?”

“Your family’s not always blood. Just remember that. I learned that the hard way.”

Daryl’s stomach burns something fierce and he thinks clearly about his actions. He left his group. Left them to the wolves and he takes a settling breath that he tries to keep from Peter. After what seems like eons, Peter finally moves, crouches down and opens the pack that belonged to Merle once upon a time.

“Here,” Peter says and hands something to Daryl. It’s the gun that Daryl remembers Peter having inside the barn. His brow crumples. Confused.

“I was saving it in case I ever ran across that—your brother,” he course corrects, “and I guess there’s no need now. It’s yours. I owe you that much.” Daryl doesn’t take it and Peter’s look turns into exasperation.

“I’m not trying to be dramatic here, but if you’re planning on staying out here with him, I’d like to know you’re with something other than a fucking bow and arrow.” 

Daryl rolls his eyes and smiles. “Keep it. If you think that you have a chance to fix what’s left of this shit-hole, then I want you to have every chance you can get. Besides, I think it might be time to go back to where I belong.”

Peter’s eyes look bright against the haze of the sun. But there’s recognition there too. Bishop gets him.

“Well, okay then.” Peter says as he stands. Olivia’s yellow head appears from beyond the clearing, running towards them and Peter’s brow furrows.

“What is it?” he says. Olivia stops a few feet short, her cheeks pink. “We’re not far out from Emory. We can get there in two days if the map’s correct.” She says through huffs, pulling out the map to show Peter, eyes flickering to Daryl a few times.

“Atlanta is overrun, but if you hike this way,” Daryl jabs a finger along the creek-line into a more woodsy route, “it’ll take longer, but they ain’t heavy in the backlands as they are in the city. You might have a chance.”

“Thanks.” Olivia says, folding up the map to tuck into her pack. “Are you coming with us?”

Daryl’s eyebrows touch his forehead. He looks to Peter who gives him a lopsided grin and a shrug.

“Nah, I got my own to take care of.”

Olivia opens her mouth but Merle stomps back into view and Peter tenses.

“We got ourselves some company, lil’ brother.  Just seen the Governor’s rides rolling past toward the prison. We gotta go.”

Peter’s and Olivia’s faces swivel onto Daryl, and Daryl’s jaw clenches. Merle eyes the two strangers through mutinous eyes, talking only to his brother.

“We’re going back.” Daryl says and Merle’s face goes red.

“Didn’tcha jus’ hear me? They’re all as good as dead—“

“You guys in trouble?” Olivia asks. Peter keeps his eyes locked on Merle standing too close to Olivia.

“Nah, we got this. We’re going back.”

“We’ll come—“ Peter says but Merle twists on him.

Daryl turns to him. “Nah, you ain’t. You’re getting to Emory. You and Olive Oil here. This is our fight. It’s my family to deal with.”

Peter’s face scrunches and Merle’s teeth grind.

“You’re coming too, Merle.” Daryl pulls Bishop aside, hand on his shoulder. “This is the right thing. You need to get out. That’s the right thing for you. Get back to your family. I’ll get back to mine.” Peter’s eyes search deep, and Daryl holds his gaze. Peter finally nods, understands him.

“Alright,” Peter says. “Alright.”

Daryl holds out his hand and Peter takes it. Merle and Olivia watch with skeptical eyes.

“Good luck,” Peter says. Daryl knows they’re running out of time, they need to get back to the prison before the Governor does. But he holds tight to Bishop’s hand.

“Good luck, brother,” he squeezes. “Take care of yerself.” He squeezes Olivia’s hand too, and finally looks her in the face. She’s pretty.

“Take care of him. He’s kind of a pussy.” Olivia smiles.

“Let’s go Merle,” Daryl says, bow drawn and turning ~~his~~ back to head for the prison.

“It’s suicide!” Merle calls. Olivia and Peter have already disappeared into the fading horizon, blurred lines that grow smaller. Daryl feels something shift, deep into his chest. Merle catches up to him, face red.

“They’re my family. And if you really are too, you’ll get your ass there with me. Brother.” Daryl waits for Merle to scream and beat his ass. He doesn’t. His face is drawn but he nods, mumbling under his breath.

With the sun bleeding into night, Daryl turns his back and hunts for home. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl goes back to where it all began. Set after "The Sorrowful LIfe" in Walking Dead universe.

Daryl’s been running blind for the last couple of hours without any conscious idea where he’s going or what he’ll do when he gets there. When he’s too exhausted to run, he wanders aimlessly through the countryside, shooting anything that’s unfortunate enough to shamble in his direction. He’s a bent pipe of heated fury and grief and above all else, anger.

He won’t go back to the prison. Not yet. Maybe never. Daryl can’t imagine telling them that the Governor killed Merle; won’t watch their faces snarl and grin like pigs that are glad to be rid of him. Screw that noise. Screw them all.

He stops abruptly when he realizes where he is. Off in the distance Daryl sees the old busted horse barn he discovered when Merle first hacked his hand off and Daryl had set out to find the sonofabitch. He feels the pull of it now, like he somehow knew to come here while his world went to shit.

The sky darkens around him, and he wonders how long he’s been away from the prison. Had it all happened that day? He curls his hands into fists and feels the sharp pain that reminds him that Merle‘s dead. He decides he could stay here a while. Let the others think he’s gone too.

The barn’s exactly the same as he remembers; the old latch still undone and the same scent wafting through it that Daryl had forgotten until the moment he stepped back over the doorframe. Inside it’s nearly black and the corners are filled with shadows and monsters. 

But there’s something else here too, causing Daryl to reach for his bow. Something real, standing in the corner.

_Wait. It couldn’t be. Jesus Christ._

“Bishop?” Daryl peers into the shadows, heart jack hammering in his chest. _There’s no way._

“Nope,” a voice responds after a few seconds, an unexpected female voice that Daryl never thought he’d hear again.

_Shit,_ Daryl thinks, holding his bow out to take aim. Just in case. “Olive Oil?” he asks the darkness, and waits for a response.

The darkness shifts, her form hidden in the corner, and while Daryl can’t get a good look, he senses the air is off around her. It doesn’t sit easy with him and he keeps the bow trained in the direction of her voice.

“Olivi-a,” she croaks, and there’s a tenseness to her voice that doesn’t give Daryl any reason to relax. He can’t see her face, but he can make out the glint off the small automatic weapon that’s in her hand. It’s a familiar feeling.

“First time I saw you, you had that gun pointed at my head,” he says, facing down the barrel.  No response.

 

“It’s just you?” he asks, trying to crane his neck around to check for intruders without taking his eyes off the gun.

“Just me,” she finally answers, but it’s not enough to soothe Daryl’s unease. She sits, boneless against the dirt ground, the gun flashing in the moonlight coming in from the broken roof slats above.

“Hello, Daryl Dixon,” she says in a flat tone that hints of something else. There’s a wave of silence where she just sits and Daryl stands, each with a hand on their weapons.

“How did you know Peter?” she interrupts from the stillness; finger firm on the trigger of the gun, probably more out of habit than threat. She’s nestled in the same spot where Bishop almost bled out a lifetime ago. There’s something about the way she says “ _did”_ instead of _“do”_ that makes Daryl uneasy. There’s something about her being here that alarms him.

“I got into some trouble while back. In the High Country, a few miles west of here,” Daryl starts, hand still on his crossbow, Merle’s blood’s still smeared on his clothes and under his nails. “Got jumped by some asshole pricks. Tied me up and tried to steal my bow. Left me to the eaters.” The memory flexes in Daryl’s mind and it makes his face boil hot.

Olivia creeps gently out of the shadows, carefully eying Daryl’s weapon and his face, reading him. The gun disappears into the darkness and Daryl consciously tries not to react.

“They went through all that trouble to jump you and tie you up just to steal that crossbow? That’s a whole lot of work, don’t you think?” she counters, and Daryl stiffens. “What do you suppose they were really after? Something else, maybe?” she chirps suggestively and Daryl snarls, twisting his neck in irritation.

Whatever road she was treading on with that line of questioning forks quickly. “Your hands have blood on them. Why?”

Daryl has a sneaking suspicion he’s sitting on the wrong side of the interrogation table.

“Where’s yer boy?” Daryl finally asks instead, “I would’ve guessed that he wouldn’t step two feet away from you, come hell or high water.” Olivia’s face goes deliberately blank and Daryl feels an angry knot form in the pit in his stomach as he tries to scrape the roof right off his mouth.

“The blood’s my brother’s. Already turned by the time I got to him. The asshole.” Daryl says, not daring to say his brother’s name out loud. The bow shakes and Merle’s face burns bright in his memory and he feels sick. He’s too far from home and isn’t in the mood to hear more bad news.

“I’m sorry,” Olivia says as she leans forward into a beam of light coming in through the slats in the roof, the moonlight catching her face in soft sapphire. She’s still as pale as he remembers, her face angled and sharp. There’s something else Daryl notices, something burning just under her skin that he can’t pin down.

Olivia leans back against the makeshift pile of stacked hay; gun dropped between her knees. She leans forward again with the gun pointed at him and Daryl reaches for the bow.

“I don’t have any bullets left,” she mutters but doesn’t drop the gun, “it’s force of habit.”

The silence eats the air around them.

“What are you doin’ here?” Daryl finally breaks first, feeling antsy. She doesn’t answer and it makes him more irritated.

“You gonna tell me where Bishop is or do I need to go hunting for him? Cuz’ I really ain’t in the mood,” Daryl says when the stillness sets his teeth on edge. He can’t tell how long she’s been here. He isn’t sure if he wants to know what happened. “I don’t see no pack. No food. When’s the last time you ate?”

Olivia’s mouth splits into an odd smile, her head falling back against the hay, masking the flaxen color of her hair. She tosses the gun aside and folds her fingers together on top of her knees, looking up at him with renewed interest.

“Peter told me about this place. Said if we ever got separated to meet him back here. Made me repeat the coordinates over and over and over again, even though he knew I didn’t need to. But he was stubborn. He said to wait here and he’d find me. Never understood what was so special about this little shitty barn. Still don’t, because there’s nothing here, apparently, except for you,” Olivia says from under suspicious eyes.

Daryl swallows, finally letting his bow droop enough to drop it on the ground. He squats, his knees popping and scrubs the wet, blood-matted hair off his face, trying to find meaning in her words.

“He figured it’s safe,” he shrugs. “What happened?” he asks. Olivia ignores him.

“What were you guys? I saw how you looked at him when we met. You two had history, that much I could tell.”

“I forgot you was a cop,” Daryl says.

“I’m not anything anymore,” Olivia answers. “Peter told me about the man you were traveling with. The one handed guy who stabbed him and left him for dead. Wouldn’t shut up about him. But you…you he didn’t talk much about. Which I find odd.”

Daryl’s fists curl.

“Why is that?” Olivia continues despite Daryl’s uneasiness. “Were you guys friends? Companions? Maybe… _lovers?”_

Daryl’s jaw tightens at the last one. His face flashes hot, the air stale.

Merle’s haunting voice bullies him in his head. Daryl cuts straight to embarrassed fury but won’t respond.

Olivia remains shrouded in darkness, her tone softer and Daryl can’t tell if she’s messing with him or not.

“I wanted to ask about you. _I tried to._ But I couldn’t mention you without him getting fired up about that brother of yours and we had more important things to worry about than his relationship with a sketchy character such as yourself,” she says, and Daryl lightens up a bit and rolls back to sit more comfortably on his ass, hand still within easy reach of the bowie knife on his belt, just in case.

“Why do you care?” Daryl accuses. She seems to think on that one.

“Because I know what this world makes people do when they feel like they’re about to die,” she answers. “But here I am, and so are you. And Peter’s not.”

Daryl feels the loss in the air. It stings.

“You were going to Emory,” Daryl begins.

“Correction. We made it to Emory,” she agrees, “but obviously we never made it back.”

There’s a tone to her voice that makes Daryl’s stomach drop. He remembers the blonde as someone who terrified him, someone who could beat his ass. This girl’s…broken. He knows the feeling.

“You were supposed to save all our sorry asses.”

Olivia shifts closer to him, sliding out of the darkness to sit a foot away from him.

“Nothing can save us. I realize that now,” she says with stilted finality. Seconds tick by. Merle’s ghost sits close to him like a second skin. “We’re all dead. It’s just a question of time. There’s nothing that can stop what’s happening. I realize that now,” she repeats, holding tight on Daryl’s gaze.

“Did you have to…”she asks uncertainly as she nods at his bruised and bloodied knuckles, “…did you have to kill your brother after he changed?” she asks, as evenly as chicks used to do when they asked if he was holding crank. Even, but desperate.

Daryl’s mouth goes dry, and he breaks away from her face. Away from her eyes. He nods again. Just once. That’s all he’ll give her. He has an urge to tell her to fuck off.

When he looks back, the girl’s face is shattered, her eyes wet but she’s not crying and her face is set hard in stone.

“What happened?” Daryl asks one more time, because he needs to hear it. Olivia looks at him with narrow, angry eyes and for a moment he‘s afraid she‘s going to punch him. He tightens his arms, his stomach, everything, and waits.

Dust particles dance around the air in the shafts of moonlight that touch her face. He thinks of Bishop for a brief moment in this same place, feeling the loss of his absence for this girl. He wants to say something.

She doesn’t let him.

Olivia surprises him by launching herself at him, hands buried in his clothes to haul him up to his feet. Daryl lets her, shocked by her outburst. She shoves once, hard.

“It’s not supposed to be you here!” she shouts at him.

She shoves him again, backing him towards the same corner that probably still had Bishop’s dried blood caked in it.

“He’s supposed to be here, not you!” she continues. Another hard shove.

 Daryl’s hands are out, ready for the swing.

Olivia’s face turns wet as it flickers through patches of light as she shoves. She’s still strong as an ox and he lets her push him until his back hits the stale, sharp pinch of hay and Daryl knows something very bad is happening.

“You were friends,” Olivia says urgently and Daryl’s so freaked out he can’t find the words to respond. She’s close to his face, her fists buried into the leather of his vest.

“He saved my life,” Daryl answers.

Olivia’s breath is hot in his face, and he doesn’t have the damndest idea what she’s going to do.

“You saved his. That’s what happened here. That’s why he said he’d come back here. It’s because of you. That pack belonged to your brother. He got it from you, didn’t he?”

Daryl doesn’t know how to answer, so he swallows hard with his hands still up by his ears. She looks like she wants to gut him, and it’s a hell of a lot scarier than he cares to admit.

She surprises him when she suddenly pushes his vest off his shoulders, and for an instant his brain goes blank and confusion takes over.

“What the hell you doin’?” he mutters, but she’s already pushed him to the ground and he lands hard, disoriented, and she’s already on top of him, grabbing for his belt.  

“You’ve lost your goddamned mind,” Daryl grunts, and there’s the clinking of his pants being undone with fast hands and he’s trying to push away from her, but his back hits the hay and he’s trapped.

Olivia’s face is dark, but her eyes flash with something that he’s shit scared of, the air inside the barn cold on his belly and legs and he feels two hands grip his shoulders and he’s paralyzed when she climbs on top of him.

He wants to say something, but the air’s too thin and the whiteness suffocates him and lodges in his throat. He feels like a little boy and a bitch, and is terrified when he feels her hands on him and the shock creeps to his chest as she slides over his lap.

When he gets his mind back, he grabs at her hands, pushes her arms sky-high by her elbows and away from him. Her expression is desperate, her forehead crumpled and her mouth shut tight and for the life of him he doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing, but instinctively he knows why.

_I know what this world makes people do when they feel like they’re about to die._

She’s looking at Daryl like she looked at Bishop and there’s a sadness there that he knows will never go away. Daryl’s hands shake.

“Please,” she says, “please.”

And he feels it too. The darkness is heavy around them and he gives her slack, lets her arms run back through his hard fingers. He silently lets go, pulls up on the bottom of her tattered shirt to drag it over her head, watching in case he does something wrong. Waiting for her to pull away. He feels her coiled tight, all bone under the shirt. She keeps her arms high, lets him remove her shirt and she moves to sink down on him and it’s an instant sucker punch to his gut when he feels her slide deep.

There’s something terrible about the feeling, a heated anger as she moves and he grinds his teeth, unable to make a sound or take a breath. He grabs desperately to keep her hands pinned behind her back, away from touching him more than she has to, their position awkward. Their only point of contact is when she shifts and lifts her hips each time she drives back down, and the boiling point at the base of Daryl’s spine shoots nearly to his skull and makes his brain melt.

“Jesus,” he mutters as her movements turn from uncertain to violent, her knees tight against his ribs, the hay stabbing into the skin of his back.

Off-handedly, he thinks of Bishop and the idea shocks him. He’s trapped by the memories; the man’s angry, smoky eyes and the wiry beard that hid the hard lines of his face pop into his head as Olivia shifts her hips and it’s game over. 

Something hits deep and his breathing turns quick, closing his eyes tight as the swell fills his belly and he finally meets her unsteady thrusts and he lets go of her clenched fists to grab tight to the bones of her shoulder blades as whiteness overtakes him, and he’s coming hard with his forehead pressed into her shoulder and Bishop at the back of his mind.

When it’s over, he realizes she’s crying, her little gasps breaking through his consciousness.  The cold pricks against his skin and the darkness returns back to dangerous shadows. She hides her face in one hand, the other one clenching his vest hard, stiff-arming him to keep him pinned where he was.

“Sorry,” he says when he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do instead. The guilt is rising hot and he feels awkward in his skin.

Olivia wipes her hand on her face, refusing to look at him, cheeks glistening.  He waits for her next move.

“Emory was a disaster. Overrun. They were everywhere and I knew it was a bad idea…but I was adamant. It was our only chance. We’d come so far and I couldn’t go back with nothing. Not if there was even a chance we could save the world. I thought we’d be through before it got too late, that we’d be able to get in and out without…it was stupid.”

Daryl is thunderstruck but remains quiet, embarrassed at being half naked and watching a girl cry on top of him after sex.

She continues on in a rush of words that tumble from her mouth. “Most everything was destroyed when we got in. The mainframes, the labs, equipment. There wasn’t much left that wasn’t looted or unusable. But I knew if we kept looking we’d find _something_ Walter could use. More rooms, more nothing. Then it was my idea to split up, search double the rooms before it got dark. He argued, told me I was crazy. But it was a good idea, we’d been lucky so far, the place had been deserted. But then…it wasn’t.  And they dead were everywhere and it was already too dark and…” she trails off after another wet sob, her fists still curled in Daryl’s clothing. His neck is stiff and he doesn’t want to hear this any more.

“There were…dozens, maybe. And we were separated. I blew through my clip without making a dent. The noise only attracted them. I didn’t have a single bullet left to put myself out of my misery before they could get to me. They were going to eat me alive. It would be better than turning into one of them. I wondered if Peter would be able to…but then I found a door. Holed up in a broom closet with I don’t know how many of them outside. I hoped it would give him a chance to get out. That maybe he’d found something Walter could use and he’d get the hell out of there to save us all. But he came back for me. I could hear him outside the door—the gunshots, the yelling. Then the scratching stopped and when I crawled out they were gone, chasing him. He was luring them away. I tried to catch up but he screamed at me to run. Told me to get out. That he’d find me. I didn’t want to leave him, but there were more dead everywhere and I had to run. I was out of ammo. I don’t know how I got out, but I did. I heard more gunshots from inside, and then I didn’t hear anything at all. I waited for him, I waited for days. I went back in to find him, but there was nothing. Then I was afraid he’d gotten out and missed me because I was inside trying to find him.  But I _knew_ he’d come back here to wait for me. So here I am. I can’t go back to his father without him. I can’t leave without knowing.”

Olivia finally lets go of Daryl’s shirt and disappears; the only sounds now filling the silence are the ruffling of her pants getting pulled back on and Daryl does the same with shaking hands. Olivia goes back to her corner, back to where the light can’t touch her anymore and she’s once again shrouded in black.

“It’s been three weeks,” Olivia says, “and he told me he’d come back here.”

There’s something heavy sitting in Daryl’s chest. He known when he’d first seen the girl without Bishop that it was probably because he was dead. Because that’s what people do, they die. He tries not to imagine Bishop shuffling along with dead grey eyes like the image of Merle that‘s now forever seared in his memory.

“If he said he’ll be back, he’ll come back,” Daryl finally says, because he’s not going to challenge her now. Olivia doesn’t respond, and he can’t read what she‘s thinking and it makes it all the more frustrating.

Daryl suddenly feels the need to shower and scrub his skin of Merle’s blood, and his sweat, and her smell. “Bishop’s a good guy,” he continues, “did more for me than my own brother. He could have left me to die in the backwoods. He should’ve. But he didn’t. I don’t know why.”

Daryl hears the softness of Olivia’s voice in the darkness, the intake of air and the muffled sound that reminds him of his mom after his dad would beat her down after a bender.

“That crazy asshole made it from Washington to this hell hole, got stabbed and somehow made it all the way back to Massachusetts to find you. Sounds to me like that dude ain’t in the game of giving up. If he said he’d come back, there ain’t nothing in this world that I can see stopping him. Dead or otherwise.” He scratches the side of his nose and doesn’t say anything else.

“Thank you,” her voice says from the shadows

The darkness fills with silence again. Daryl suddenly gets an itch to get back home, to see his people. His family. He thinks of the Governor still out there, and Daryl needs desperately to get the blood off his hands.  

“Listen. We’re at the prison. We’re under attack, but we’re strong. You could come back. Make a home there. I offered it to Bishop too. If you ever need it, it’s there,” Daryl says evenly.

Olivia leans forward, her face sharp.

“I’ve got a home. But I need to know. Your brother…is it better that you know?”

Daryl contemplates all those years without Merle. And now knowing that he’s gone.

“Yes,” he answers honestly.

Olivia nods. “I need to wait a little longer. Get back to your group.”

Daryl stands, still awkward and shaky in the knees. He looks over to the spot where he just was, where Bishop once lay, and he buries the feelings deep.

“I ain’t got more ammo,” he says, and pulls the bowie knife from his belt, hilt out to her. Olivia hesitates, but stands, still in the shadows.

“Why?” she asks.

“Because you’ll need it. And I owe him,” Daryl answers and she nods, her hand snaking out from the darkness to take it from him.

“Thank you, Daryl Dixon,” she says with an air of finality and he doesn’t know what else to say. He gives her another quick nod and slings his bow over his shoulder, feeling like he’s filled with stones as he leaves. He shuts the barn door behind him, his hand lingering on the latch. The night air is cool against his heated cheeks, and he closes his eyes and takes two long breaths before he takes off running, quickly leaving the barn behind.

“Where are you Peter Bishop?” he says into the night, trying to see the dim stars through the trees.  He wonders when the last time he’d actually seen them was.

He feels different now, harder, and hopeless. He’d been foolishly banking on the two of them to get back to whatever they were doing to save them all. In the end it was just another pipe dream and the only thing left to do now was to keep on going.

He starts the long solemn trek back to the prison, feeling Peter’s eyes on his back the entire way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't really envisioned continuing to work on this fic, because I wasn't sure how to continue it. But the idea for this chapter came to me weirdly in a dream, and I really didn't want to like it because it felt so out of character for Olivia, but was encouraged (mildly harassed) into writing it out and in the end I'm really pretty sure this is exactly how it would go down.


End file.
